The Poetry of Joanna Baillie.
The Poetic Works of Joanna Baillie. Female Picture of a Country Life Even now methinks Each little cottage of my native vale Swells out its earthen sides, upheaves its roof, Like to a hillock moved by labouring mole, And with green trail-weeds clambering up its walls, Roses and every gay and fragrant plant Before my fancy stands, a fairy bower. Ay, and within it too do fairies dwell, Peep through its wreathed window, if indeed The flowers grow not too close; and there within Thou'lt see some half a dozen rosy brats, Eating from wooden bowls their dainty milk- Those are my mountain elves. Seest thou not Their very forms distinctly? I'll gather round my board All that Heaven sends to me of wayworn folks, And noble travellers, and neighbouring friends, Both young and old. Within my ample hall, The worn-out man of arms shall o' tiptoe tread, Tossing his gray locks from his wrinkled brow With cheerful freedom, as he boasts his feats Of days gone by. Music we'll have; and oft The bickering dance upon our oaken floors Shall, thundering loud, strike on the distant ear Of 'nighted travellers, who shall gladly blend Their doubtful footsteps towards the cheering din. Solemn, and grave, and cloister'd, and demure, We shall not be. Will this content ye, damsels? Every season Shall have its suited pastime: even winter In its deep noon, when mountains piled with snow And choked-up valleys from our mansion bar All entrance, and nor guest nor traveller Sounds at our gate; the empty hall forsaken, In some warm chamber, by the crackling fire, We'll hold our little snug domestic court, Plying our work with song and tale between. Song, Poverty Parts Good Company When my o'erlay was white as the foam o' the lin, And siller was chinkin my pouches within, When my lambkins were bleatin on meadow an brae, As I went to my love in new cleeding sae gay, Kind was she, and my friends were free, But poverty parts good company. How swift passed the minutes and hours of delight, When piper played cheerly, and crusie burned bright, And linked in my hand was the maiden sae dear, As she footed the floor in her holy-day gear! Woe is me; and can it then be, That poverty parts sic company? We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk, We met i' the sunshine, we met i' the mirk; And the sound o'her voice, and the blinks o'her een, The cheerin and life of my bosom hae been. Leaves frae the tree, at Mertimass flee, And poverty parts sweet company. At bridal and infare, I braced me wi' pride, The bruise I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride; And loud was the laughter good fellows among, As I uttered my banter or chorused my song; Dowie and dree are jestin and glee, When poverty spoils good company. Wherever I gaed kindly lasses looked sweet, And mithers and aunties were unco discreet; While kebbuck and beeker were set on the board; But now they pass by me, and never a word! Sae let it be, for the worldly and slee Wi' poverty keep nae company. But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart, And the spae-wife has tauld me to keep up my heart, For, wi' my last saxpence, her loof I hae crost, And the bliss that is fated can never be lost. Though cruelly we may ilka day see How poverty parts dear company. Song, Poverty Parts Good CompanyWHEN my o'erlay was white as the foam o' the lin, And siller was chinkin my pouches within, When my lambkins were bleatin on meadow an brae, As I went to my love in new cleeding sae gay, Kind was she, and my friends were free, But poverty parts good company. How swift passed the minutes and hours of delight, When piper played cheerly, and crusie burned bright, And linked in my hand was the maiden sae dear, As she footed the floor in her holy-day gear! Woe is me; and can it then be, That poverty parts sic company? We met at the fair, and we met at the kirk, We met i' the sunshine, we met i' the mirk; And the sound o'her voice, and the blinks o'her een, The cheerin and life of my bosom hae been. Leaves frae the tree, at Mertimass flee, And poverty parts sweet company. At bridal and infare, I braced me wi' pride, The bruise I hae won, and a kiss o' the bride; And loud was the laughter good fellows among, As I uttered my banter or chorused my song; Dowie and dree are jestin and glee, When poverty spoils good company. Wherever I gaed kindly lasses looked sweet, And mithers and aunties were unco discreet; While kebbuck and beeker were set on the board; But now they pass by me, and never a word! Sae let it be, for the worldly and slee Wi' poverty keep nae company. But the hope of my love is a cure for its smart, And the spae-wife has tauld me to keep up my heart, For, wi' my last saxpence, her loof I hae crost, And the bliss that is fated can never be lost. Though cruelly we may ilka day see How poverty parts dear company.